


Suffer the Fools

by crikey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, No warnings apply but yknow, Not exactly proud of myself for writing Death Eater fic at all but it's such an, and language, its creepy and depressing and warnings also for mentions of torture, unhealthy and terrible dynamic and so very interesting to think about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crikey/pseuds/crikey
Summary: In the sitting room, the fire is dying; somewhere else, Avery is not.





	Suffer the Fools

It is late when Mulciber answers the door, borrowed wand raised defensively. Avery lives in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere and doesn’t have neighbors who would see, but it still wouldn’t do to be recognised; luckily the man on the step is one of their own.

“Mulciber,” says Augustus Rookwood. 

“Rookwood,” says Mulciber. He doesn’t invite his visitor in; Rookwood doesn’t seem to mind, just peers over his shoulder into the house.

“Avery here?” 

“Somewhere,” says Mulciber. 

“God, trust him to land a hovel like this,” says Rookwood, and Mulciber laughs. Avery’s house is far from a hovel but it is small and somewhat unclean, a far cry from the mansions some of them tout.

“Spends all his money on his damn cigarettes,” he says. He likes Avery more than Rookwood, though, so he adds loyally, “Better than Snape’s.”

“Lunatics,” sneers Rookwood.

There is a pause before Rookwood says, “He wants to see him.” There is little doubt as to who  _ he _ is, or what sort of call this must be. It is too late to be anything good. 

Mulciber rolls his eyes, already feeling the relief of  _ well, it wasn’t me _ . Poor stupid Avery, he thinks. “What’d he do?”

Rookwood gives the barest smile, sharklike in its apathy, and says, “Lied.” 

Rookwood goes home; Mulciber finds Avery in the dining room, smoking over whatever paperwork he’s brought home to finish. “He wants to see you,” is all he has to say; Avery says something crude and leaves quickly. 

Mulciber moves to the sitting room and picks some dull book off a table, not really intending to read it. The firelight isn’t quite strong enough and he half expects to be called up in twenty minutes or so to dispose of the body; the part of him that’s glad it wasn’t him is almost gleeful at the thought. The rest of him, of course, wonders whose house he’s going to live in once Avery is dead. He can’t see the Malfoys wanting him around. At least Lucius doesn’t smoke like a chimney. 

(By the time it’s been an hour, the fire is sputtering and dim and Mulciber realises that Avery won’t die tonight. It isn’t much of a comfort.)

Avery comes back hours later; there’s a loud  _ crack _ of Apparation in the coat room before he creaks in and fumbles through his cabinet, bottles clinking clumsily before he picks one. Mulciber, slouched on the sofa, laughs, low and sleepy. “Oh, he got you good,” he says.

“Shut up,” says Avery, his voice weak but poisonous. “Or get out of my house.” Whatever he pours, it’s strong enough that he makes a hideous face as he gulps it down; Mulciber laughs again as he repours. He is in pain, obviously so, and shaky with it— it’s a miracle he doesn’t break anything; even so, some of the liquor dribbles down his chin on his second drink, and Avery is too obviously beyond caring.

He has two more before he sits down and, predictably, gets out his cigarettes and lights one. “You’re disgusting,” remarks Mulciber. Avery ignores it the first time, so he repeats it. 

“Shut  _ up _ ,” says Avery; Mulciber starts laughing as Avery smokes, finishes his cigarette quickly and lights another. The only sounds are his laughter, getting a little wheezy, and Avery’s harsh breathing, though Mulciber can tell he’s trying hard to calm down. The alcohol, the cigarettes.  _ Pathetic _ , he can’t help thinking.

This wasn’t a warning to the rest of them— if it had been, they’d all have been summoned to bear witness— it’d been for the Dark Lord only. Something useful to do with his anger, somewhere easy to put it. And of course it’d been for Avery, too. Mulciber knows him well enough to know that he’ll never know exactly what happened tonight; he watches Avery from his comfortable spot on the sofa and amuses himself trying to guess. He isn’t trying to be subtle; though Avery’s doing an admirable job not looking back at him, the staring must be driving him mad.

He rips to his feet after three cigarettes and heads upstairs without another word. Mulciber says mockingly “Good man,” as he goes; Avery slams his bedroom door. 

Alone in the sitting room, Mulciber relights the fire. If it had been him, he muses, Avery would have been just as unsympathetic. (But it wouldn’t ever be him, he thought with some vindictive pleasure. He wasn’t fool enough to lie to the Dark Lord— he couldn’t fathom what Avery had been thinking.) 

Avery is either hungover or achey the next day; he doesn’t go in for work and by the time he makes it to the kitchen it is already afternoon, which must be his justification for drinking for breakfast. In the dimly lit dining room, the bottle gleams unpleasantly as he pours; before he sits, he shoves his work from yesterday into a pile. “You’ll lose your job,” says Mulciber; this is sullenly ignored. 

“If he calls us and you turn up drunk,” says Mulciber. He doesn’t need to continue. They both know that Avery is on thin ice now. 

Avery says, after a moment, “Bet anything he’s just holing up with fuckin’ Rookwood making plans. Won’t be for a while.” He has another drink. 

“Fine,” says Mulciber, with some annoyance. “Get yourself killed.”

Avery snorts and lights a cigarette; the matchlight must hurt his eyes, for his next words are said too gruffly. “He doesn’t want me dead yet,” he says.

“Yet,” repeats Mulciber, less sympathetically than he should have. ( _ Obviously _ , the Dark Lord doesn’t want him dead yet. If the Dark Lord wanted Avery dead, Avery would be dead.) 

“Shut up,” says Avery through his cigarette; the menacing tone is creeping back, so Mulciber does. He doesn’t want to be turned out of the house, and isn’t quite confident that it won’t happen if he keeps pushing his luck. Even Avery must have a breaking point. He’s weak but he’s not completely spineless. Mulciber leans back in his chair, half-smiling with amusement. 

By his estimate it must have been some twenty-four hours since Avery ate anything; sooner or later the alcohol and last night’s torture will start to take their toll and Mulciber doesn’t want to deal with it. Now is as good a time as any to retreat to the guest room. He leaves Avery to drink alone in the dining room, thin and insubstantial in the long shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> Said this in the tags already, but I've thought an amount lately about the Death Eaters and how they must have functioned (ie., very poorly.) 
> 
> Yikes! I hope I don't write much more of them, they kind of make me uncomfortable-- but I did have to get this out.


End file.
